" And she flung herself between them. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. "Ireton, as you captured him, the reward is yours. I sang to him, and he was satisfied. My mother shall never degrade herself by a connection with you. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. That's the way she strikes me. She described it so vividly. I rarely set foot in London these days.
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